Benedictio
by WriterExtraordinaire
Summary: After the failed Trials, Sam Winchester is blessed with the wounds of Christ. Finally after years of filth he is clean. At least that's how he sees it. To Dean, what is happening to his brother is a curse and, no matter what he does, it's going to kill him. This time, for good. new chapter every weekend (between friday and sunday)
1. Galilee

The voices were soft, at first, barely noticeable, a hallucination maybe, more likely a desperate wish, a hopeless dream. Then they grew in number and volume, until one morning, three days after the failed Trials, three days after the world had come crashing down around them, Sam Winchester woke up and pressed his palms against his ears, struggling to shut out the noise, struggling to fall back to sleep. He was tired. He wanted to rest. He was still weak, still exhausted from what had happened in that abandoned church. He needed more sleep, just a few more hours. But then he realized what the voices were saying. For the first time in three days, Sam Winchester didn't dismiss the voices, didn't push them away, didn't force them into the back of his mind where the rest of his hopes and dreams lay. He _listened_ to them and he heard what they were saying.

_Sam Winchester is forgiven._

_ Sam Winchester is saved. _

Sam pushed the blankets off of his frail body and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his feet to the cold, concrete floor as he stared at the ground, his hands no longer pressed against the sides of his head. As he sat there, he realized that the angels were somehow speaking in his mind. Vaguely, he remembered when he'd first met Anna Milton and she'd had the same problem. They'd later learned she was a fallen angel and that was the reason she could hear the other angels in her head, but Sam knew he wasn't an angel and even if he was, he couldn't be hearing the others. Three days ago, they'd all fallen to Earth. So why could he hear them now? And why had he been hearing them for the past three days?

It was the sound of the door creaking open behind him that made Sam start and fall both out of his bed and his reverie. A voice as startled as Sam had been sounded and when he regained his composure and the stars stopped swimming in front of his eyes, he realized it'd only been Dean coming in to check up on him.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked. He was leaning over him, a hand hovering above his brother's heaving bare chest. Sam thought about lifting his own to reassure Dean he was alright, but, in the end, decided against it.

Instead, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, nodded in response to his brother's question, and said, "Yeah. I'm fine."

The voices had faded again.

Dean let out a small breath as he straightened from the crouch he'd been in. It was obvious he didn't believe him and after what the Trials and the aftereffects of said Trials had been doing to him, Sam couldn't say he was altogether surprised. He'd spent the last three days almost exclusively in bed, attempting to recover. However, it seemed that all he'd gained were the voices of the angels in his head.

"Sam, you can't keep lying to me like this," Dean said, half to himself. Sam said nothing. Not only because he wasn't sure if Dean wanted him to respond, but also because he wasn't sure what to say. He'd been lying to Dean about how he was feeling his entire life. He wasn't sure he could simply stop now.

There was a short silence where Sam pushed himself back up onto the edge of the bed and Dean stood by the doorway, his back to his brother, almost as though he were giving him just enough time to make himself look like he was okay again, before he turned around once more and said, "Get dressed. I've found a job for us a couple miles from here. Three girls went missing a week ago, but they were all found yesterday, strung up in a church with their hearts cut out. The cops are saying it's a serial killer."

"What do you think it is?" Sam asked automatically, though he wasn't entirely sure what Dean had just described wasn't the act of some regular human psychopath.

His brother shrugged. "I don't know," he replied. "But I think it'd be good for you to get out of this room for a couple of hours. You're going to end up suffocating in here."

Sam let out a small laugh. He had a feeling there was more to this than Dean was letting on – the last thing Dean ever did was suggest Sam leave his room when he was sick – but he wasn't going to argue. He waited until Dean left to both get dressed and contemplate what their venture out into the world after the angels had fallen could really be about. He supposed that Dean wanted to look for Cas. According to his brother, he'd vanished once Dean had arrived at the church to stop him from finishing the third Trial and purifying Crowley – whose location they also were unsure of. Apparently, Naomi had come down to Earth long enough to inform Dean that he, Sam, would die if he finished the third Trial and that what Metatron had really been doing was creating a spell to make all of the angels fall from Heaven to Earth.

He wondered vaguely if the angels' descent to Earth was covered by the news. He wondered what people were calling it. They couldn't be dumb enough to classify it as a meteor shower, especially when the meteors turned out to be people. Would they blame aliens? Though, it turned out that what people typically thought were aliens were actually fairies as he and Dean had learned a couple of years ago.

_It doesn't really matter what they think they are, _a voice in his head reminded him. _You just have to find a way to get all of their graces back and send them back to Heaven before they damage Earth and the people on it. _

It took Sam longer than it might have normally for him to get dressed. He was certain this was due to his weakness from not only the toll the Trials had taken on his body, but also from having spent the days since in bed. He suspected that the repetitive voices of the angels had something to do with his slowness as well. That is, they even _were _the angels. He still wasn't sure that's what they were, but what else could they be? And what did their words mean?

_Sam Winchester is forgiven._

_ Sam Winchester is saved._

How could he possibly be forgiven – or saved – after all he had done in his life? Especially by the angels? Dean had told him he was forgiven by him the night he nearly died purifying Crowley, but a part of Sam was beginning to wonder if his brother hadn't just said that so he wouldn't kill himself to save the rest of the world.

More than once since that day, Sam had wondered if it wouldn't have been better if he had died. There would be no more demons in the world, no more need to perform exorcisms or use holy water or devil's traps. The body count in the war between hunters and the creatures of Hell would have gone down significantly, but, instead, Sam had survived, so the world would simply continue going on as it always had: with the evil that came from nightmares still lurking in the shadows.

"Please," Sam said desperately and to no one in particular. He turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Please let me be able to do something…anything…to save the world…please let me do something so that I _deserve _to be forgiven…"

Once Sam finished his prayer, he blinked a few times and scoffed, realizing how ridiculous he was being for praying when there was no one left in Heaven. His prayers wouldn't be heard, let alone answered, and why would they be anyway? The voices he was hearing were probably just some hallucination, an aftereffect of the damage the Trials had done to his body.

He checked himself in the full length mirror attached to his wall near the door before he left his room.

He was wearing a suit, one of the ones Dean had bought him, but, because he'd lost so much weight, the jacket hung loosely on his shoulders, he had to pull his belt to almost the last hole to keep his pants up. If he took off his jacket, the nice white button-up underneath looked ten times too big for him. And that was just his body. His face revealed a tiredness that not many had known. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks were hollowed out. He sighed heavily at his reflection. There wasn't much he could do. He and Dean didn't own makeup. They were guys and didn't often wear disguises that needed much more than a fake ID and a change of clothes. He would just have to go out looking like this whether he liked it or not.

Sam turned off the light behind him and let out a huff. He knew Dean wouldn't make fun of him for his appearance, especially since it came from him being sick, but he almost wished he would. That way he could feel as if at least something was going back to normal, but as he left his room and headed up the stairs that led to the door out of the bunker, he had a feeling that his definition of normal wasn't going to come around for a long, long time.

The drive the church was surprisingly short, but it was enough time for Sam to take in the state of the world after the Cleansing of Heaven, as Dean had called it.

Damage had been done to more than a couple buildings. Where the angels had fallen, there were scorch marks, as though they'd still been on fire when they'd hit the ground, but it had only burned for a few moments before snuffing itself out. Where the graces had fallen, the ground seemed to glitter, as though it had been touched by fairy dust. Everywhere Sam looked, people seemed to be cleaning up fallen tree branches, debris from damaged buildings, or repairing the road where an angel-shaped hole was. It didn't look like the apocalypse, not by a long shot. More like a bad storm had gone through the area, and maybe that's what people would have been thinking it had been, if it wasn't for the fact that the entire world had experienced it.

"What are they calling it?" Sam asked, tearing his gaze from the window for a moment to look at his brother. "What happened with the angels?"

"They started out saying it was a meteor shower," Dean said, turning into the parking lot of the church. "But after they saw people walking around and acting funny – i.e. the angels – they're thinking it was that and something else. Of course, some have been saying they saw _people _falling out of the sky, but no one really believes that."

Sam didn't have to ask why. If he didn't live the life he did, he would be wondering why people were saying people had been falling from the sky as well. He would question it, even if he saw it himself, he would question it. Up until four years ago, he didn't even know angels existed. Now they were falling from the sky. What was going on? Why had Metatron emptied Heaven?

As he got out of the car, he shook his head and examined himself in the car window. He still looked exhausted and his palms were hurting. He let out a heavy sigh. He hadn't fully healed after all. He shook his head again before he followed Dean into the church.

"And this is where you found them?" Dean asked Father Simmons as they walked down the aisle between the pews of the church. Sam was distracted by the stained glass windows and the huge cross at the front of the congregation to really be paying attention. There was something about all of this that made him feel peaceful, at home. He'd always liked churches, but these feelings were different, new. He smiled. He liked it. Maybe he should start coming to church on Sundays. Dean would make fun of him for it, but the world was going to Hell and a little extra praying couldn't hurt anybody, especially not someone who prayed every day as it was.

_There's no one in Heaven anymore, Sam, remember? _A voice whispered in his mind, but, this time, he ignored it. Did it really matter that there weren't any _angels_ in Heaven? What about God? And Jesus? Did they suddenly mean nothing? Didn't _they _listen to prayers, too?

_The angels haven't seen God in centuries, _the voice reminded him. _And no one's ever really talked about Jesus. _Again, Sam ignored the voice and continued admiring the architecture.

"I found them over here," Father Simmons was saying, gesturing to the giant cross. "They were tied to each section of the cross, as though whoever had killed them was trying to recreate the cross, but with human bodies." The pastor paused as he stared at the wooden sculpture. If Sam looked close enough, he could see bloodstains on the polished wood. "They had holes in their hands and feet as well," the pastor added. "The wounds of Christ…"

"Do you think the killer put them there?" Dean asked. He was supposed to be writing all of this down in the notebook he had flipped open, but when Sam glanced over at it, he noticed that Dean was doodling the angels fall to Earth. He'd also drawn a picture of Cas in the corner and put question marks over his head. Sam drew his brows together, wondering, not for the first time, where their angel-no-more was.

"Yes," Father Simmons replied, making Sam look up from the notebook. "I don't know who else could have done it."

"Father Simmons did these girls have any enemies by chance?" Dean asked, lowering the notebook and crossing his hands in front of him. Sam noted this as one of his brother's nervous habits. He wondered if he was even really focusing on the job or if he was more concerned with what was happening outside.

"No," the pastor said. "Emily, Lindsey, and Martha were the town's angels." Dean choked back a laugh at the wording. "They never got into trouble. We were all very sorry when each one of them disappeared. They were dedicated to the church and the word of God."

"Did their parents ever…get into trouble?" Dean asked. He'd opened up his notebook again and was continuing his doodle.

Again, the pastor shook his head and said, "No. Their parents were just as good as their children. They were all very devout people. I feel terribly sorry for them and to have to see their daughters…_crucified_ like that…how horrible…"

Dean was saying something else, probably asking about the parents' friends, trying to find someone who could've possibly thought that killing three seemingly innocent girls was alright. He'd ask about the girls' friends next and then their friends. He'd ask about everyone and everything he possibly could, trying to narrow it down, trying to get some sort of hint as to who or what could have done this. Sam knew that he should probably be contributing, asking a few of the questions so Dean didn't have to, but there was something about the cross that was distracting him and it wasn't the few reaming bloodstains that the cleaning crew hadn't gotten out, it wasn't the magnificent stained glass window of Jesus' crucifixion behind it, and it wasn't the names that had been carved into the wood at the bottom. It was something else, something else entirely, something Sam couldn't even name.

It was around this time that Sam noticed a ringing in his head, one akin to what he'd heard when he was near Metatron. He pressed one hand to his ear, but the ringing increased. He struggled to keep himself from moan in pain as his eardrums reverberated, but this didn't seem to work. Suddenly, he was on his knees. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He let out a gasp and looked up. Dean was hovering over him, looking worried. He said something, but Sam couldn't hear him.

"Dean?" he asked, struggling to speak over the ringing. "What's going on?"

And that was when it happened, that was when everything changed.

Without warning, there was a searing pain in Sam's palms, worse than anything he'd ever felt before in his life. He screamed in pain clenching his hands into fists, trying to lessen the agony by putting pressure on the place where the most pain was, but this didn't seem to do anything. In fact, he seemed to be digging his nails so deeply into his palms he was drawing blood. He could feel it on the tips of his fingers. But that was a lot of blood. That was too much blood. More blood than his fingernails could ever make. He was certain Dean was saying something, he could just barely hear it over the ringing and that was when Sam opened his eyes.

Carved into his palms were two matching circular wounds and, in an instant, he knew what they were, knew what this meant, knew what was happening to him, though he wouldn't remember later. But in that moment, he looked up, he stared at the cross and the stained glass window behind it that now seemed to be glowing. He was grinning from ear to ear, knowing what the voices in his head had meant, knowing the definition of their words. Tears of joy coursed down his cheeks, the smell of flowers wafted up into his nose as Dean took his palms and began wrapping them with a part of his shirt that he'd torn off.

"Thank you," Sam gasped out. "Thank you, so much."

It was only a moment later he lost consciousness.


	2. Nazareth

_The words were written in a messy hand on an equally messy page of a journal that Sam had seen all his life. Sam couldn't even remember when he'd first seen the journal, Dad's journal. He was too delirious to really remember that or care. All he knew was that he had to do this. He had to finish this. If he didn't, who knew what would happen, what else would transpire?. Demons walked the Earth, had done so for centuries, once he said these words, once he forced this last bit of his blood down Crowley's throat, the final Trial would be complete and the Gates of Hell would be shut for all eternity._

_ With trembling fingers and an angry grimace set into his features, Sam held up the journal and said, struggling to sound strong instead of exhausted, "Exorsus amus te omnis imundus spiritus omnis in umarum tentegra ustra." He'd spoken those words hundreds of times in various situations, but never had it ever been more important than it was now. _

_He replaced the journal with the knife he'd gotten from Ruby what felt like an eternity ago and dug the blade into his glittering palm, watching his blood pool in the center. He moved closer to Crowley, using his free hand to steady himself against the back of the chair the demon-no-more was sitting in. He was just about to press his palm against Crowley's mouth, just about to finish the Trial save the world, finally do something right when the doors to the church burst open._

_"Sammy, stop!" _

_Sam started and turned towards the still-swinging doors, seeing Dean standing in front of them, looking both desperate and angry. He was breathing heavily now, looking at his brother as though he were some sort of foreign object rather than the person who had raised him, cared for him, loved him, when no one else had. He was also the person who was the most disappointed in him and that was why he was doing this, finishing the Trials, so he could make up for all of the times in his life he'd let his brother down. And, besides, what was Dean doing here right now anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be with Castiel? Trying to shut the Gates of Heaven, while he shut the Gates of Hell?_

_"Easy there, okay?" Dean said, moving slowly towards him, his hands raised as though he were approaching a frightened wild animal instead of his brother. "Just take it easy, we've got a slight change of plan."_

_"What?" Sam burst out, sounding incredulous. How could they be changing their plans _now_? He was almost finished! Couldn't Dean see that? It was too late to do anything different. "What's going on? Where's Cas?" He'd suddenly realized the angel wasn't there. His eyes flitted around the church as though he expected him to appear at any moment, but when no winged creature revealed themselves, he returned his gaze to his brother, the one constant in his life. The only one he could truly trust._

_"Metatron lied," Dean said, still speaking slowly and calmly. "You finish this Trial…you're dead, Sam."_

_Sam glanced around the church, took in the world, Dean, his glowing arms, the last things he would see, before he turned back to his brother, the look of confusion still blatant on his features as he said, completely serious, "So?"_

The world swam slowly into focus. First the ceiling appeared, cracked and yellowed. Then when he turned his head, the wall and his dresser revealed themselves. Finally, Sam saw his lamp and his nightstand, dotted by books, a gun, and a watch that needed new batteries. He'd since gotten a new one, but Sam had always been a bit nostalgic and kept the old one just because he thought it was a good idea to have a spare.

The first thing Sam did once he'd regained consciousness was try to figure out how he's lost it in the first place. He remembered getting up and getting dressed. He remembered driving to the church and speaking with the pastor, but after that, he had no memories. He rubbed his eyes and, instead of his soft palms, he felt coarse bandages. He pulled his hands away from his eyes and saw the ivory gauze covering his hands. He turned them over several times before, at last, he remembered.

The church.

The cross.

The ringing in his hand.

The sudden pain in his hands.

The knowledge of what was happening.

And then nothing. Then he'd blacked out.

Apparently, Dean had taken him back to the bunker after that and tucked him into bed. He was still wearing his clothes, so he knew that Dean had practically thrown him in here before he'd undoubtedly rushed out of his bedroom and into the library and began trying to find some indication as to what was going on. Sam knew. Sam had known from the moment he felt the pain in his palms and the smelt the flowery odor coming from the wounds. It was something he'd read up on in college when he took a religion class. But he didn't dare to think it. If he did, if he thought about what this meant, what this could mean for him, then it could be taken away. He wasn't going to think about it. Not until it was confirmed.

With a heavy sigh, Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed for the second time that day and pushed himself up too fast. The world lurched forwards and swam in circles and he staggered, hitting his nightstand and knocking the top books off of the stack. He heard a loud clatter, which he figured must be his gun falling to the ground as well. He moved so his back was pressed up against the wall near the nightstand. He tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to make the world stop spinning through deep breaths. Vaguely he remembered when he'd told Dean to calm himself down the same way. He let out a small laugh.

_It works, which Dean would know if he ever tried it. _But Dean wouldn't. He was too proud for things like that, which was something that could potentially lead him to an early grave. Sam pushed himself away from the wall, slowly this time, and reminded himself that they'd both already died several times. If they hadn't died yet, there was a good chance they weren't dying any time soon.

Well, at least Dean wasn't.

Sam walked slowly and tentatively out of his bedroom and into the library. He saw books scattered all across the table, all of them open on different pages. Some showed Jesus' crucifixion, others spoke of holy rites of passage that were enacted through some churches centuries ago, others still showed the Gates of Hell and hellhounds guarding the entrance. Sam wasn't sure what that had to do with what was happening to him, but maybe Dean was on to something and knew something he didn't. Perhaps this had been spurned by the Trials. As far as either of them knew, the Trials had never been attempted before, so it was entirely possible. However, this also meant that there would be no record of it either.

Tearing his eyes away from the haphazardly placed books, Sam turned his gaze to Dean. His brother was so lost in his reading that he hadn't even noticed Sam come in, something that Sam wasn't used to, but was planning on taking full advantage of. As he moved closer to Dean, he noticed that he was thumbing intently through a dusty leather-bound volume with gold trimming and elaborate pictures on the inside. Sam squinted. The pictures appeared to be hand painted. There were only a handful of books left like that in the world. How had the Men of Letters acquired one?

He stared at the book over his brother's shoulder, reading the few sentences he could as Dean continued flipping through the book, scanning each page before he deemed it useless and went on to the next one. Sam was secretly searching for something too, trying to read the words that his brother was flipping past, trying to find something that could relate to what was happening to him, wanting desperately to confirm it and, at the same time, scared to do so. It wasn't until his eyes flitted over the words, "..._first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history_…" that Sam's eyes widened and he shouted, "Stop!"

Dean started and turned in his chair as he did so, almost falling out of it. If Sam hadn't been so suddenly engrossed in the book, he might have laughed, but, as it stood, he hardly heard Dean say, "Jesus, Sammy, you scared the shit out of me!" The words on the page seemed to preside over everything at the moment.

He pulled the book out of Dean's reach ("Hey! Sam! What the hell?") and began to read the paragraph from the beginning.

_St. Francis of Assisi is the first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history. Two years before his death, he embarked on a journey to Mt. La Verna for a forty day fast. One morning, near the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, a six-winged angel allegedly appeared to Francis whilst he was praying. It is said that as the angel approached, Francis could see that the angel was crucified and was humbled by the sight, his heart filled with elation joined by pain and suffering. Once the angel left, Francis was purportedly left with wounds on his hands, feet, and side as if caused by the same lance that pierced Christ. The image of nails immediately appeared in his hands and feet and wound in his side often seeped blood. This later became known as 'stigmata.' _

Sam shut the book, much to Dean's frustration ("You lost my spot!") and set it back down on the table carefully, almost as though it were made of glass.

_I didn't a crucified angel, though, _Sam reasoned, _so this couldn't be that, could it?_

But it was. And he knew it was. He just didn't dare think the word, didn't dare say it out loud. If he dared to believe or confirm even for a second that this was…what the book said and that he was being blessed in the same way this priest had been and then it turned out later that he'd just somehow impaled his palms on something that was on the floor and this wasn't that at all, he would never be able to get over it. It sounded ridiculous, he knew, to be able to get over the death of his brother and turn himself into an awful hunting machine, intent only upon killing Lilith, but unable to get passed the fact he may not have been chosen for salvation after he'd been purified of the disease he put inside himself during that time. Though, after the way his life had gone, after he'd realized just how filthy and undeserving of happiness, of Heaven, of _life_ that he was, he felt that, in a way, these feelings were understandable.

When Sam Winchester was only six months old, a yellow-eyed demon by the name of Azazel stole into his bedroom, cut his wrist and bled into Sam's mouth, turning him from a full-blood human, to a half-demon. His mother walked in on Azazel while he was doing this. Shortly afterwards, his father heard her scream and ran upstairs to find her pinned to the ceiling. Once it was set aflame, John rushed Sam out of the room, handed him to Dean, and told him to run outside. Ever since, Sam's life had never been what anyone could ever call normal, and though it wasn't until he was in his twenties that he found out what had been done to him by that demon as a child, throughout his life, he never felt pure. This was only enforced when he learned later on, he was meant to be Lucifer's vessel on Earth. Even after he threw Lucifer back into the pit and came back nearly two years later this time _with _his soul, he still felt he had to atone for all of the things he'd done without one. Never once in his life had Sam Winchester truly felt guilt free.

But if this was truly what that book said, then none of that would matter anymore. What the angels were saying would be true. He _was _saved. He _was _forgiven. And, finally, _finally_, he was clean again. He was _pure_.

"Sam? What the hell is going on?"

The voice belonged to Dean and he started Sam out of his thoughts. For the first time, Sam realized he was leaning over the books, his hands clutching the table so tightly his knuckles were white. He released the table and pulled back, staring at his hands, it took him a moment to also realize they were bleeding again and that was why his fingers had felt sticky when he pulled them away from the table and why Dean was suddenly grasping them, saying, half to himself, "I need to rewrap these."

Sam let Dean lead him to the misplaced sink the Men of Letters had, for whatever reason, decided they would need in the library. He let him unwrap his palms, struggling to keep himself from wincing too much as he did so. He stared down at his hands as Dean cleaned them, watching his blood run pink down the drain. Once most of the blood was gone and his palms no longer seemed to be leaking, Dean led him back to the table and told him to stay put while he went and got the medical supplies. Sam did as he was told. He was half-worried anyway that if he moved, his palms would start bleeding again and he didn't want to get his blood all over these books. When his brother returned, he wrapped his hands in ivory gauze, staring at his work, looking methodical. Dean was silent throughout the entire ordeal, all business, just as he was _whenever _Sam got hurt. But, if the book was right, then this was a different kind of hurt, something no amount of magic or supernatural intervention could cure.

When he finished, Dean held Sam's hands carefully in his own, almost as though he were convinced Sam were made of glass and he was afraid he was going to break him. He looked into his eyes for a moment, begging him, without a word, to tell him what was going on, but, when Sam kept his mouth shut, Dean simply raised Sam's hands to his lips and kissed the insides of his palms, a look of pain on his features as though he already knew how this would end.

An image of Judas doing the same thing to Jesus flashed through Sam's mind.

_But Judas betrayed him, _a voice reminded him. _Judas may have loved Jesus the most, but he betrayed him to the Roman soldiers and is the reason he was crucified. _

_Yes, _Sam agreed, _but Dean isn't Judas. And this isn't Biblical times. _

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said softly, helping Sam to his feet. "You need to lay down for a bit." He guided him to his room, helped him into some more comfortable clothes, and laid him down on the bed, pulling the blankets up around his chin like he did when they were children and Sam was sick or had gotten hurt on a hunt or was upset about how much Dad had yelled at him that day during training.

While, for the first time in a very long time, Sam thought about all of the times Dean had taken care of him when he was hurting in one way or another, the brother in question kissed his temple and whispered, "Sweet dreams, Sammy." He pulled back and headed towards the door, wiping a hand down his face as he did so, something Sam knew was one of Dean's nervous habits. The angels falling, Cas's second disappearance, and now this thing with Sam? They were all getting to him. In truth, almost nothing _got _to Dean or if it did you couldn't tell. Unless you were Sam Winchester. He supposed this was one of the advantages of having been around his brother the majority of his life. He always knew what was going on inside his head.

In lieu of wanting to see his brother's expression, but also sheer curiosity, he asked, "Dean? The hunt? At the church? W-was it a hunt?"

Dean paused in the doorway for a moment, staring at Sam, almost as though he didn't really know what he was talking about. Then it all seemed to come back to him and his eyes widened a fraction as he said, "Oh! Yeah, the church. Uh, yeah, it was nothing." He gave a brief, forced smile and said, "Sleep tight, Sam," before he flicked the light switch and closed the door carefully behind him, returning to his place among the books in the library.

It took Sam barely a minute to fall asleep once Dean had left. Suddenly, he was exhausted. Suddenly, his bed could not be more comfortable. Suddenly, he needed to sleep for a thousand years or more without disturbance. He let out a heavy sigh and relaxed into the thin mattress, the blankets curled around his body perfectly. He couldn't remember having ever been more comfortable, except, perhaps when he was in Dean's arms. But Dean wasn't here right now. He was researching what Sam already knew and was hesitant to tell him.

_You have to tell him eventually, _the voice in the back of his head reasoned. _If you don't tell him soon, he'll be angry with you because he'll know you knew what was going on all along. He doesn't like it when you keep things from him._

The voice was right, but Sam ignored it. He was tired. He needed sleep. He could deal with these things after his nap.

When Sam opened his eyes in dreamland, he was in a stark white room. Everything in it was white. The desk, the chairs, the walls, the lamps, the ferns, everything was the color of the clouds. Which was why it took Sam only a moment to figure out where he was.

"Heaven?" He asked, looking around, seeing a white bookshelf filled with white books. "Am I in Heaven?" Then a more important question popped into his mind. "Am I dead?"

There was no answer, not that he really expected one. For a long time, Sam stood in the white room, glancing around, trying to figure out if this was a dream, a vision, or what, when, at last, he heard a voice, but not the one he'd been expecting, come from the desk.

"Sam Winchester."

He whirled around and saw an older looking man with a white beard and white hair longer than his. He was sitting behind the desk, but when he stood, he was wearing a white suit with matching shoes and carrying an equally white cane. He moved towards Sam with a smile on his face. "I haven't seen you for a long, long time," he said, still smiling. He glanced around and the room and added, "It is a little bright in here, isn't it? Would you prefer this?"

The room changed suddenly into a Biggerson's, a diner he and Dean went to whenever they got the chance.

"Or this?"

The scene around them changed again. This time into the library where he'd first met Jess at Stanford. He froze at the memory.

"Oh dear," the man said, his brow creasing with worry. "I can see I've upset you. Never quite got over her, did you? How about we just sit and talk here?"

The room changed back to a Biggerson's and the man gestured to a booth to Sam's left and they both sat down. A woman came by and gave them menus, informing them that she was going to be their waitress for that evening. Sam took the menu, feeling very confused and searched through it. It was the same as every menu he'd ever seen at any Biggerson's and when the waitress returned, he ordered a glass of water and some salad. He wasn't particularly hungry, but, for some reason, it felt as though it would be rude to refuse food.

"Always been your favorite dish, hasn't it, Sam?" The man said this as more of a statement than a question, a smile still locked on his features.

"Who are you?" Sam blurt out, unable to contain himself any longer. "I mean, clearly you're an angel of some sort. You know where my favorite places are. You know what I like to eat." He paused and licked his lips looking away, before he added more softly, "You know about Jessica." He swallowed, looking away again, before he said a second time, "Who are you?"

The man smiled at Sam, folding his hands on the table.

"I am God."

"You-you're God?" Sam said, suddenly angry. "Well, great, if you're God, then where the Hell have you been for the last…eight years? Where were you when my mom died? Or when Jessica died? Or when Dean was torn apart by hellhounds because he was just trying to save my life? Or when my dad turned Dean from a little kid into a hunter just because he couldn't handle the fact his wife was dead? How about when I was drinking demon blood? Why didn't you come and stop me then? Or what about the Apocalypse? Where were you when your sons were screwing the whole world over? Where have you been?!"

The man's smile had vanished. He hadn't interrupted Sam once during his tirade, but now that he was finished, he stared sadly at the tabletop and said, "Many people ask me why I let bad things happen in the world, Sam, and, the truth is, I have no control over you, as many people believe that I do. I only create you and give you to a pair of people who want a child. Unfortunately, that pair of people isn't ready to have a child sometimes and may not ever _be_ ready. Sometimes that pair of people gets hurt by other people and, as much as I want to stop it and save all of you from what my other children do, I cannot. I can only hope that things get better for you and you make the right choices. I can do my best to guide you in the direction I want you to go, give you small signs and gentle nudges, but that is all I can do. I gave you something I did not give to my angels and I'm sure you already know what that is. I believe your brother once called you, him, and Castiel Team Free Will, am I correct?"

Sam didn't answer.

The man who claimed to be God sighed. "I'm not here to speak to you of what's gone on in the past. I'm here to talk about your present and your future."

Still, Sam said nothing. If this man were truly God, and it was looking more and more like he was, then why in the world would God want to talk about _him_? And even if he did, why wasn't he reprimanding him for all of the things he'd done in the past?

"Ah, ah, ah, Sam," God said. "Remember? I had no control over what you did. It was your choice, but, as I said, it's all in the past now and no longer matters. Contrary to popular belief, I am a very forgiving person. All of that…Old Testament stuff? That was me in my…teenage angst days. That is what you call your…darker time of life nowadays, isn't it? Anyway, I've long since realized that I have no control over you and the last way I'm going to be able to control you while still having you love me, is through fear." He smiled. "Anyway, do you want to know what is going on right now or don't you?"

Again, Sam didn't respond, but he figured he didn't really have to. God knew what he was thinking and, yes, he did want to know what was going on, he was just still a bit bitter over everything and too proud to actually say it.

"Very well," God said and he sat more forward in his side of the booth. "You were right. What you are experiencing is stigmata. I know you got the palm wounds a little quickly, but your others won't come as fast. There will be a reddening on your skin where the wounds will appear and then one day, they'll start bleeding. Not too badly at first, but it will get worse. I hope your brother has a lot of medical supplies. My thinking is that Dean isn't going to want to take you to a hospital. Not that they would be able to help. As you know well, stigmata is not something that can be cured by human physicians and, even if there _were_ any angels left in Heaven, none of them could cure you either." God paused, staring intently at Sam, before he added, "Are you going to ask it?"

"Ask what?" Sam replied.

"The question that's been rolling around in your mind since this happened," God said. "The one every stigmatic has ever asked."

"Wh-why me?" Sam asked. It sounded more like he was trying to confirm that this was indeed the question God was referring to.

God smiled. "Yes! That question! And my answer is this: you completed the Trials and you are now pure. I know you believe you are not completely rid of the filth that is the demon blood, but that is no longer true. If you were as unclean as you believe yourself to be, you would not be able to have the blessings of the stigmata, Sam. You're a smart man. Surely, you know that." He gave Sam a sympathetic smile. "Anyway, I would not have chosen anyone to become the second savior if Metatron had not first cast all of the rest of my children out of their own home. The only way to put them back again is to great someone the power's my son, Jesus, had on Earth and…for them to guide them back to Heaven once the stigmata is complete."

"You-you mean I'm going to die?" Sam asked, his voice hollow.

"I'm afraid so," God replied, looking at the tabletop. "That _is_ the only way this can work."

"But...but what about Dean?" Sam asked. "What will he do?" As much as Sam sometimes believed Dean would be better off without him, when it truly came down to it, he knew that his brother really wouldn't be alright. He'd lost his mother when he was four years old, he'd lost his father when he was twenty-seven, he'd lost countless friends. If Sam was gone, too, Dean would have no one. Well, he would have Cas, but Dean often complained about how Cas couldn't truly understand his feelings because he was an angel and had been born with none.

"I cannot give you any promises that Dean will be alright," God said carefully, "but I do swear that no matter how Dean dies, he will be granted a place next to you in Heaven. The both of you have done more for my Earth than any two people should have to."

Sam didn't say anything in response. He knew what God meant. If Dean were to kill himself after Sam died, after his stigmata killed him, after he took the angels back to Heaven, graces and all, he wouldn't go to Hell. He would go to Heaven. Sam took a small breath and asked softly, "Does everyone who commits suicide go to Hell?"

"No," God replied. "Not everyone. Only the ones who were…inherently bad."

The waitress returned, setting both of their meals in front of them. She gave them both a winning smile and walked away. Sam watched her go, until God snapped him back to attention by saying, "Are you really going to think like that, Sam? In front of the Lord? And when you have your brother? I don't think he'd be very happy with you, know you've slept with a girl when you seem to get so upset when he does the same."

Sam blushed and smiled for the first time since he'd arrived in God's presence. "You-you know about that?" he asked, smiling down at his salad. He pushed it around with his fork.

"Of course, I do," God replied, a smile of his own on his lips. He'd ordered a hamburger. He picked it up and took a big bite, grinning in pleasure. "Ah, I can see why your brother orders this. Very tasty."

God took a few more bites before he set down the burger and said, "When you get back, I think you should talk to Den about this. I know you won't because you're not going to like telling him the part about you dying, but that's just my advice."

Sam opened his mouth to explain why that wasn't a good idea when suddenly he was in his room again. The lights were off. He pressed a button on his watch to check the time and saw nearly three hours had passed. It was close to five in the afternoon. He wondered if he should get up, have dinner with Dean, and do as God suggested and talk about what was going on. But, in the end, he decided that he was tired and wanted to sleep rather than discuss the inevitable with his brother. No matter what he told him, Dean would search for some way to stop this, he would try to figure out how to save him instead of realize that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. In short, Dean would not understand.

He rolled over in bed and stared at the darkened wall, and just before he fell asleep once more, the full reality of it hit him.

He was no longer the boy with the demon blood, Lucifer's vessel on Earth, or the Boy King of Hell. He was the Modern Messiah and, when he died, he was going to give all of the angels their graces and take all them all to Heaven.


	3. Basilica

When Sam woke up next, he felt more refreshed than he had in years. The last time Sam had gotten a good night's sleep was before the death of Jessica. Every night since then, he'd tossed and turned, trying to erase dreams of her and everyone else he had ever loved dying, while he was unable to save them. It seemed that was his legacy, what he would leave behind when he, himself, finally died: a lot of dead friends and people he'd let down.

At least, that's what he'd thought.

Until now.

Now he was going to leave behind so much more. He was going to die a savior, a _messiah_ to the angels that Metatron had cast to Earth. When he died, he would take them up to Heaven with him. He would have done God's work, _truly _God's work, here on Earth, and, unlike the last time he'd opened his eyes in the place where he would spend eternity, this time…this time he would deserve to be there.

The thought made him smile like an idiot. He rolled over in bed and stretched leisurely. He was so happy about what was going to happen, what was _already_ happening that he completely forgot there were downsides to it, and when he pushed himself up into a sitting position, he cried out in pain. The wounds in his palms hurt. A lot. They hadn't hurt that badly before, but now they burned as though they were on fire. He even held them out in front of him to make sure they were not, in fact, aflame.

The burning went down from searing to extremely uncomfortable a few moments later and it was only then that Sam dropped his hands back into his lap, letting out a huff as he did so. He sat on his bed for a moment, thinking about his dinner with God and what he'd been told and decided that he couldn't tell Dean. At least not yet. God had advised he tell his brother straight away, but he'd also said that he knew he wouldn't. The stigmata was going to kill him. That much he'd already known and the last conversation he wanted to have with Dean – especially after all that had happened lately – was one that involved the words 'I'm going to die soon.' Dean would try to find a way to stop this and, though Sam didn't think there was a way to stop it – it'd been decreed by God after all – what if there _was_? Dean wouldn't listen to Sam's reason. He would do everything in his power to stop the stigmata whether Sam wanted him to or not.

A soft flow of voices made its way from outside Sam's door into his room. For a moment, he thought they were the angels speaking again, but the longer he listened, the more he realized that it was just the radio. Dean had set it up a few days ago and had been listening to it nonstop ever since the Cleansing of Heaven. Currently, the newscaster was talking about how strange some people were acting all across the globe.

"...thought it was a freak virus at first, but now it seems that large group of people have suddenly gotten amnesia. They don't really seem to know how to do certain things. It's almost as though they're not from around here and, with the claims that some _other_ people are making, that they saw _people_ falling from the sky during the worldwide meteor shower, this is, in my humble opinion, a significant possibility…"

While Sam got up and opened the door to his room, heading back into the library, the newscaster went on to say that all of the people acting strangely seemed to be homeless, which could also attribute to the 'people falling from the sky' theory. A part of Sam hoped that no one figured out that they had in fact fallen from the sky and that the angels were smart enough not to mention that they were angels otherwise the sanitariums would fill up really fast.

Slowly opening the door to his bedroom, Sam realized for the first time the reason he could still hear the angels, though they'd fallen was because he was the second messiah. He also realized that saying that sounded like saying the Second Coming, which was supposed to be when Jesus would come back to take all of the worthy souls to Heaven before unleashing Hell on Earth where the unworthy would stay.

He sincerely hoped that was _not _what God had in mind.

Sam found Dean sitting in the library as he had before. This time, on top of a stack of books in front of him, was an old radio that crackled and had to be tapped every couple of minutes to keep working. Memories of sitting in the back of the Impala or a dirty motel room watching Dean do the same thing swam to the surface of Sam's mind and he asked, "Haven't we had that radio forever?"

Dean jumped at the sudden appearance of his brother, his arm outstretched, ready to hit the radio that had gone fuzzy and sounded more like a broken microphone than a radio. Just as before, books were scattered out in front of him, but this time, he had a notebook next to him. He seemed to be taking notes on whatever it was he was reading. Which showed Sam the importance of whatever subject his brother was researching. Dean never did anything even slightly academic unless he absolutely had to. There was a reason he'd never done well in school: he'd simply felt it didn't matter.

Falling out of the stupor that an upright Sam had put him in, Dean blinked a few times before he hit the radio, forcing it to resume its broadcasting, and turned back to his books saying, "Yeah. I didn't even think you remembered it. I found it when I was digging through the Impala looking for _a _radio a couple days ago." He didn't have to explain why he wanted one when their bunker didn't have a TV or could even get a signal for cable.

"I've been remembering things a lot better lately," Sam stated by way of explanation. He moved towards the table, again reading over Dean's shoulder. His brother was no longer looking at a book that had a section on stigmata. He was looking at something else entirely. However, even from the short paragraph Sam read surreptitiously from behind Dean didn't even really explain what his brother was researching. It seemed to be something to do with hellhounds and, though Sam knew Dean was not on the right track, he said nothing. In fact, secretly, he was glad his brother didn't have any clue as to what was going on. He wasn't ready to have that conversation yet.

"I figured that if I researched each part of the Trials, I might be able to figure out how…this," here he gestured to Sam "started." He let out a low chuckle. "Guess I kind of took over your job, eh, Sammy?"

Sam forced a smile and a laugh that matched his brother's, replying, "I guess you did."

He searched with his eyes, trying to make it look like he wasn't searching for anything, for the book he'd been looking through before he passed out and had his visit with God. However, when Dean had been looking at that book before and Sam had been reading it over his shoulder, the book had been open and Sam hadn't seen the cover. He knew that if he asked Dean for the book, he might figure out that Sam knew more about this than he was letting on. Dean wasn't stupid by any means and he knew that if something was threatening Sam's life and Sam knew something about it, there was a larger change he would keep it from him.

However, as Sam continued to scan the table, Dean said nothing. When Sam glanced at him, he realized this was because Dean had gone back to his research and he let out a small breath. Suddenly he felt guilty for keeping his knowledge from his brother. Dean was only trying to help him, only trying to find a way to keep him from dying because he couldn't handle it again. He'd seen his Sammy die one too many times and he couldn't do anymore.

And that was something Sam understood.

Not too long ago – he wasn't sure that date would ever be far enough away in his memory – he'd watched his brother die every day over and over again, one hundred times, until he finally died for – what Sam had, at many times, though – was for good. It had turned out that was just an illusion. His brother's timeline was somehow suspended for six months while Sam hunted down the trickster – turned out he was the archangel Gabriel – that had made him watch his brother die repeatedly. The very last thing Sam wanted to experience again was Dean dying. He'd done it enough. He _couldn't _do it again.

And he knew Dean couldn't either.

But he was going to have to. He just didn't know it yet.

_ Maybe you should tell him, _a voice whispered in his mind. _He has a right to know. _

_Yes, _Sam agreed. _But I can't have that conversation with him. Not just yet._

And that was what he said every day. For the next month and a half, he told himself he wasn't ready. He went to bed, thinking about what he should tell Dean and when he should do it. He woke up deciding today was not the day and going about his business, spending most of his time in the library with Dean, flipping through all of the books, trying to find the one he'd seen shortly after this all had begun, explaining stigmata in full detail. It wasn't that Sam didn't already _know _what stigmata was in full detail. He just wanted to refresh his memory so he would understand what he was about to experience and so, to keep himself from having to talk to Dean about what was going on – and under the pretense of helping his brother research – he looked through the books Dean had already gone through, certain the one he was searching for was in that pile, saying he was looking for anything Dean might have missed. Of course, he found nothing, but he wasn't really doing what he said he was anyway.

As the days went by and they found more of nothing – or rather, Dean did – Sam's stigmata did not progress. His palms bled more some days than others – and those days, when they ran out of bandages and Dean had to run to the nearby pharmacy to get more, Sam would search frantically through the pile of books Dean had discarded, trying to find the one he was looking for, but to no avail – but, for the most part, nothing significant that would alert Dean to look somewhere other than the books he'd pulled from their shelves, taken from the library, or got at the secondhand bookshop.

It was on the six week mark from the day his stigmata had started that Sam finally found the book while Dean was out. There was nothing on the cover to suggest that it was a book about stigmata. It was only a red, leather-bound volume with some sort of intricate carving done into its front and back covers, but the moment Sam opened it and began to flip through the pages, he knew he'd found his diamond in the rough. By the time Dean had gotten back, Sam had reached the part he'd read before. He'd been studying the illustrations, the carefully written words, thinking about how much museums would pay for it, but mostly thinking about how this book could help him predict what was going to happen to him next.

_You could've just looked in the Bible for that, _a voice told him, but he ignored it (even though, as usual, it was right). He'd found what he was looking for. Now he just had to make it seem like he wasn't as interested in this book as he really was. Otherwise Dean would find out what was going on and, as per usual, he wasn't ready to have that conversation.

_Typically, stigmata starts with the wounds in the palms where Christ was nailed to the cross. The wounds can also be in the wrists, but, for the most part, the wounds are in the palms. These wounds will happen quickly. The palms will start bleeding immediately and, within the next few days, start hurting. Next, the wounds in the feet will appear. These will appear more slowly than the palm wounds. First, the subject's skin will become inflamed before eventually giving way. As with the palm wounds, the feet wounds will only start hurting after two or three days. After that, the scratches from the Crown of Thorns will appear. Again, the skin will be inflamed before giving way. Depending on the subject, these wounds will bleed more or less frequently. Following this are the whip marks on the back. As with the marks from the Crown of Thorns, these will bleed more or less frequently depending on the subject. It also depends on their depth. Finally, the wound from the Holy Lance will appear. This is the wound that typically kills stigmatics as it tends to bleed more often and more furiously than the others. Again, the skin will be inflamed before the wound appears, so the stigmatics have time to prepare._

_In addition to these wounds, stigmatics have been known to experience visions of Christ's sufferings, feel His sorrow and His pain, and cleanse those around them of their sins. They may go into a trance during their visions and reenact what it is that Christ experienced during His own suffering. Physicians will be unable to cure the wounds of any and all stigmatics. The wounds are known to smell of flowers or perfume. This is typically called the Odor of Sanctity. The wounds are also accompanied by extreme pain, though, this varies from person to person. Crying tears of blood is also very common as is a strong desire to receive Holy Communion and often. Stigmatics have been known to be overwhelmed with emotion and can cry or laugh at the drop of a hat. Finally, stigmatics do not feel the need to eat or drink and, as a result, experience heavy weight loss. If they do not die of blood loss, this can be what ends up killing them. _

Sam closed the book and sat back in his chair, slumping slightly, staring ahead at nothing in particular. He'd been glad of this to begin with. It had sounded like something that might finally make him feel clean, but after reading all of that, all of the things he would experience before he finally did die – and not only because God was trying to bring him to Heaven, but most likely of something as simple as starvation or blood loss – he was beginning to wonder if this really was such a good thing after all.

_Of course, it's a good thing! _The voice in his head argued. _You are going to be pure! Clean, for the first time in your life! You don't think _that's _a good thing? Are you really willing to give this up because you're afraid of a little pain? You've been through worse in Hell! This will be a walk in the park compared to that. _

Yes. That was true. This pain would be nothing compared to what Lucifer and Michael forced him to experience in Lucifer's cage, but he hadn't had to see Dean's expressions, watch him cry because his little brother was in pain, when he was in the cage. He'd have to see that now. He was the only one Dean really showed his emotions around. He tried not to. He acted like he didn't. But Sam had seen Dean cry more in front of him than anyone. Even their father.

He ran a shaking hand over his face as the brother in question opened the door to the bunker and dashed down the stairs before appearing in the library, several grocery bags, which he took to the kitchen, in his hands.

"There's more in the car," he said as he dumped them on the counter. "We were running low on food and I figured it would be smart to get some more while I was out." Sam began pushing himself up to go help Dean bring in the rest of the groceries, but Dean placed a hand on his shoulder on his way past him, forcing him to sit down again as he said, "You rest. The last thing I want is for you to pass out because the grocery bags are too heavy or something."

Sam managed a small laugh at that and watched Dean go back up the stairs and out the door. After the door snapped shut behind him, he hid the book he'd been looking through in his room and was back in the library, searching through another book before Dean had returned with more of their groceries.

"Find anything while I was gone?" he asked, setting the bags he was currently carrying next to the others.

"No," Sam lied. "I don't think there's anything on…whatever this in any of these books."

Dean groaned as he headed back to get the remaining groceries. "How the Hell are we supposed to figure out what this is if we can't even –"

"Can't even what?" Sam asked, prompting his brother to finish his sentence. He knew Dean was still there. He'd heard the door open, but it hadn't closed. He waited for a response, but got none. And when he still hadn't gotten one after calling out his question again, he pushed himself up from the table, staggering a bit as he did so, and headed in the direction Dean had gone, trying not to panic, too much. No one knew where they were. They'd taken extra care to make sure no angels or demons or anyone could find their hideout.

However, there was angel – or former angel as he now was – that knew where they were and when Sam entered the main room of the bunker and looked up at the balcony where the door was located, he saw that's why Dean was frozen with the door open, looking shocked and angry at the same time.

Sam went up the stairs as quickly as possible, knowing already that his secret was going to be out in the open in a very ugly sort of way before too long. The odds of an angel (_Former angel, _hereminded himself again) not knowing what stigmata was – or how it looked when it first began – were next to zero.

Still, when he was standing by Dean, he forced a smile onto his face at the sight of Castiel, standing on their doorstep, looking a little worse for the wear, but otherwise appearing the same as he had the last time Sam had seen him.

"Cas!" he exclaimed, as though he were truly glad to see him, though he was already nervous as to what road any conversation they were going to have was going to go down.

"Sam," he responded, turning his gaze from Dean, who looked as though he was about to either throw up or hit something, "we need to talk."


	4. Bethlehem

_The door to the confessional booth creaked when Sam opened it. It sounded almost like a whine, a desperate plea, asking, "Tell me your secrets. Tell me what's weighing on your mind. And I will make it better. I promise." _

_He was still trying to figure out whether this was laced with malicious intent or not._

_Moving quickly inside, Sam closed the door behind him and knelt on the decaying bench set in front of the space where a pastor might be sitting if this church hadn't been abandoned. As he glanced around the rotting booth thought about the last time he'd been in a place like this when he was thirteen years old, shortly after he'd realized his feelings for Dean were going nowhere fast. But this was different. The confession he'd worked up in his mind from the time he'd left Dean out by the impala to now both involved his brother, but during his last confessional he was only half sure he was wrong. This time he knew he was._

_"Okay," he said, letting out a nervous breath and clearing his throat, "if anybody's listening…" he glanced at the ceiling one last time "here it goes."_

_But he didn't start speaking straight away, he thought about how to formulate the words in his head as though there really were someone before him whom he needed to understand what he was going to say, and, in his mind, there was. The only person who could truly be listening, who could truly purify him enough to cure a demon was God himself and, as far as he and Dean knew, God had been MIA for the past few centuries. Still, it was him, specifically, that Sam was praying to. It was him he needed to hear his prayer._

_"My greatest sin is I've let Dean down one too many times, well, more like ten too many times." Sam let out a humorless laugh. "It seems like all I do is let him down. I guess I could be saying a lot of other things that I've done in the past, but all of the worst things were tied to letting Dean down and doing exactly what he asked me not to. _

_"I-I try not to...I really do, I promise I do, but I just…you'd think after thirty years I'd know how to _not _let him down, but I don't. I n-never seem to learn from my mistakes. I think I have, but then I do something else. Like not looking for him when he was in Purgatory. I didn't know what had happened to him or where he was, but…completely ignoring the fact that he was gone and I just…gave up on him right from the start…that wasn't the right thing to do…I know that now…I only seem to know what's right after the fact and…I want to change that, but I don't know how…" _

_He looked down at his hands clasped in prayer. "I-I guess I can start with this. I can start with…giving my life to save the lives of more people. I can't let Dean or the world down again. This is how I can start to redeem myself and…maybe once this last Trial is finished, once the demons are shut back in Hell, I-I'll finally deserve to go to Heaven…" He paused as he realized what this meant, what he'd said. He took a shuddering breath and then said, shakily, bowing his head and closing his eyes, "Amen."_

_For a long time, Sam stayed in the confessional booth, staring at his hands, fingers still locked together. His vision blurred and when it cleared again, there were two drops of water on his thumb knuckle, each sliding down a different side of his hand. He took a shuddering breath and told himself not to cry, Crowley was in the church and the last thing he wanted was for the bastard who'd killed Sarah to hear him cry, but it seemed the minute he thought this was the minute his body gave up on trying to hold back. He took another breath and it caught in his chest and before he really knew what was happening, he was sobbing, curling in on himself as he thought about all the times he'd disappointed Dean, how he was still disappointed with him. He thought he needed a chaperone, he'd said that to Cas before they'd left to finish the Trials to close the Gates of Heaven. It seemed no matter what he did, he couldn't make Dean proud. _

_It took a while, but, at last, Sam's sobs ceased, his determination not to mess _this _up, too, returned and, by the time he opened the door to the confessional booth once more and stepped out, Sam Winchester was ready to die. _

For a long time after Cas spoke, the three of them just stared at each other. Dean still looking both relieved and angry, Sam becoming increasingly nervous and surprised, and Castiel appearing as impassive as ever.

Finally, Dean spoke for the first time since opening the door and said, "Where the hell have you been for the past month and a half?" He seemed like he was trying to sound angry, but he mostly seemed relieved and Sam didn't have to ask why. When the angels had fallen, many of them had been reported as dead only a few hours or days later for various reasons. Some had been murdered for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, others had fallen in the ocean and drowned, and others still could not seem to cope with the agony of having their Grace torn from their bodies and died in that sense. Thankfully, it seemed none of the above had happened to Castiel and that was why, Sam was sure, Dean was upset the former angel hadn't paid them a visit sooner.

"I am sorry about the tardiness of my visit," Cas responded, turning his gaze, which had been locked onto Sam, to Dean. "I was…trying to help some of my brothers and sisters cope with the world they have been thrust into, but I was unsuccessful in several cases. Many of the angels have since been detained by the government and are being held in top secret facilities. The ones who have not yet been captured are causing mayhem. Those are the ones I was trying to assist, but, as I previously stated, I was unable to do this for the most part."

"Do you know where the angels are being held?" Dean asked, suddenly all business.

"At various locations across the country. I am unsure as to whether or not they are being held captive in other countries as well, but my guess is yes."

Dean stepped away from the door and pulled Cas inside, closing the door behind him. Sam mumbled something about getting the rest of the groceries, while his brother led their friend down the steps into the library, neither really seeming to notice his disappearance. If it hadn't been for the fact that Cas had arrived with the first real news on the angels in days, Sam might've thought this odd.

The minute Sam was out of the bunker and standing before the impala, he braced his hands on the trunk and took several deep breaths as he tried to calm the panic that had been rising inside him since Cas had first spoken to him.

He knew. That much was clear. How _much_ he knew was another story altogether, but Sam was willing to bet he knew a fair amount. He was an angel after all and, after having heard the angels whispering about him in his head right before the wounds in his palms had first appeared, Sam wouldn't be at all surprised if Cas had, in fact, been one of the angels whispering in his ear, telling him he was forgiven and saved.

Slowly he opened the trunk of the impala and pulled out the last two grocery sacks, thanking anyone who might be listening – which would only be Metatron and God – that they weren't too heavy. When he realized that one of the two listeners was probably Metatron, he sent a "fuck you" in his general direction. Because of him they had to save the world. Again.

By the time he got back into the bunker and was setting the bags on the table, he was trying to come up with a way to keep Cas from telling Dean what was going on. The angel wouldn't understand why he wanted to talk to him alone and he would probably think Dean needed to hear their discussion anyway. Castiel wasn't the most tactful human, though he hadn't been a tactful angel, either. However, lucky for Sam, they were still discussing the fallen angels when he arrived and Dean, so eager for news, hardly noticed his brother sidle up to him, his hands bleeding even more furiously now that he'd put strain on them. He began inching away to find the first aid supplies in the bags when his good luck ran out and Cas looked up.

"You're going to need a lot more bandages than what you have on hand to keep the bleeding from becoming too severe," he said, interrupting Dean, who, for a moment, seemed extremely confused before he turned around and saw Sam rifling through the bags with a guilty expression on his face. His eyebrows shot up as he put two and two together: Sam knew what this was already and so did Castiel.

"Sam," Dean said, turning away from the former angel to face his brother, "is there something you want to tell me?"

Sam swallowed hard and glanced at Cas. Dean turned back to him. "Or you. You could tell me what's going on too if you have any fucking idea. You could let me know I've wasted nearly two months trying to figure out what the hell is happening to Sam when I could've just found out from you if you'd shown up sooner or if Sam had decided, for once, not to keep things from me."

Immediately, Sam felt guilt rising within him. God was right. He should've told Dean earlier. He was opening his mouth to tell him, explain to him what was happening, but Cas beat him to the punch, saying quickly, "God has blessed Sam with stigmata, the wounds of Christ."

"I'm a little fuzzy on the whole 'blessed' concept," Dean said, his eyes flicking for a moment from Cas's face to Sam's bleeding hands. "What is stigmata and how, exactly, is it a blessing? Why has God given it to Sam? And what is God even doing back? I thought he'd been AWOL for the past millennium or so."

"It would seem he has always been around," Cas said, answering Dean's last question first. "He recently visited Sam and explained to him what he would be experiencing."

"How recently is recently?" Dean asked, a dangerous tone creeping into his voice.

"To my knowledge, it was three days after the Emptying of Heaven," Cas replied.

Dean turned to Sam, not saying a word, but the expression dominating his features was enough to let Sam know Dean was not happy about having been kept in the dark all this time.

"As for stigmata and the reasoning behind God's blessing Sam with it, stigmata is, as I said, when a human receives the wounds Christ had at the time of his death: the holes in his hands and feet, the scratches from the Crown of the Thorns, the whipmarks upon his back, and the spear wound in his side. God has blessed Sam with this so that when he dies, he may cleanse the world of its sins and bring the angels back to Heaven," Cas explained.

There was a short silence after this, during which Dean seemed to be trying to process what the former angel had told him. When it finally seemed to register in his brain, he said, "You mean, this is going to _kill _Sam?" His voice broke on the word 'kill' and, for a moment, Sam felt guilty that this had happened to him, that soon, Dean would be all alone in this world. Again.

"Yes," was all Castiel said in reply.

There was another silence. Then Dean walked around the table to his seat in front of the books and began frantically searching through them, checking the indexes and tables of contents instead of each individual page.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked, though he already knew.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" his brother replied, not glancing up from his work. The stack of read books was now growing by the second. "I'm trying to find a way to stop this."

Taking a deep breath, Sam clenched his hands into fists at his sides as he said, making his voice as strong and steady as he could, "I don't want you to."

Dean paused in his work, halfway between shutting a book and placing it on the pile, his eyes still riveted the page before he looked up, blinked at Sam a few times and said, "What?"

"I don't want you to try to find a way to stop this," Sam clarified, though they both knew damn well what he'd meant to begin with. "This is a blessing like Cas said and I don't want it to be stopped."

Dean snapped the book shut. "Blessing?" He spit out the word as though it were too caustic to hold in his mouth any longer. "Goddammit, Sammy, Cas just said this _thing _is going to _kill_ you!" The anger he'd been holding back since he'd been told what this was suddenly flooded into his expression and his tone for a moment Sam recoiled.

When he finally regained his composure, he said, "But don't-don't you see, Dean? That doesn't matter. When I do die, I'll die…pure. I'll die with God's blessing, and his forgiveness, and…and I'll _deserve _to go to Heaven. Because this – this is cleansing me of my sings. For the first time in my life I feel…clean…"

Dean let out a 'tsk' and looked away, dropping the book he was holding, pushing himself up from the table, and pacing the library, running his hands through his hair and over his face as he took in what his brother had said, what it would mean if he couldn't find a way to stop what was happening to him. Deep down he knew there _wasn't _a way to stop it. It had been given to him by God and, no matter what he did, there was nothing he could do to change what had already been written in Heaven's history books.

When he finally stayed in one place for more than ten seconds, he dropped his hands that had been knotted in his hair, turned to Sam and whispered, not daring to look at him, "You can't just ask me to let you die…"

Sam swallowed hard. "I have to," he replied, his voice just as soft.

There was another silence. This one longer than all the rest as Dean stared at his little brother, trying to imagine life without him, trying to imagine him bleeding from too many places, while he lay dying on his bed in his room, trying to imagine putting him in the ground, this time for good and not being able to bring him back ever again. He turned his gaze from Sam to the floor, his shoes blurring as tears filled his eyes. He nodded as the tears fell and he said, "Okay, Sam. But I'm not going to be here to see it."

Sam opened his mouth to beg Dean to stay, that he couldn't leave, he couldn't handle this if his brother was gone, but before he could even formulate the words to convince his brother not to abandon him, he was out the door, the revv of the impala signaling his departure.


	5. Judea

The first week of Dean's disappearance, Sam called him every day. Sometimes every hour. But only got voicemail every time. Castiel, unable to disappear or really go anywhere anymore, didn't leave the bunker and took up residence in one of the other bedrooms. Unlike Sam and Dean's rooms, he kept his impersonalized. And very clean. Whenever Sam walked in during the day, he saw the bed made, the floor swept and no evidence that his no longer angelic friend was currently living with him.

The two spent the afternoons in the library, looking through the books. He was sure what Cas was reading about, but Sam was searching for more information on stigmata. However, the more he searched, the more he certain he became that he'd found everything in the books they owned. If he wanted to find out anything more, he'd have visit the public library, but he didn't want anyone to see his wounds for multiple reasons, the main one being, he didn't know how people would react. He'd heard of many stories of different versions of stigmata. People were either revered or shot down. Knowing him with his luck, he would be one of the latter.

The second week of Dean's disappearance, Sam stopped calling him. He figured if his brother was ever going to come home or talk to him, he would do it when he was good and ready and him being a nuisance wasn't going to change or help that. Castiel wanted to learn how to cook so Sam taught him how to make eggs, since it was the one dish he was really good at and the first time he tried to make them himself, he nearly burnt the bunker down. The second time, his eggs were burnt, but decent. And the third time, Cas made them a breakfast that, were he there, Sam was sure Dean would've been proud.

There wasn't much more news on the fallen angels other than some people had seen government officials arresting them. At first, no one seemed to be too concerned about this, considering that the angels were, in some cases, doing considerable damage to the things around them. However, by the end of the week, it turned out that a group of college students had discreetly followed one of the vans full of arrested angels to a large quarantined building in the middle of nowhere. This started a protest outside of the quarantined building, complete with people holding up picket signs and yelling at the vehicles that brought more and more angels into through the large barbwire-topped fence into, what had been christened 'The Holding' by the public and the media.

It was around this time that Castiel suggested they buy and install a television.

The third week of Dean's disappearance, Sam decided that his stigmata wasn't going to progress as quickly as he'd thought it would, which meant he had to try and sharpen his skills that had been fading and near useless since he'd begun the Trials and gotten sick. Whenever he wasn't sitting in front of the new TV with Cas, a book in his lap and the remote next to him, he was downstairs in the shooting range, struggling to get back his perfect aim. When he got a bullseye one afternoon after lining up the target with his gun for a full five minutes, he almost called Dean to tell him before he remembered his brother had walked out on him. It took him another five minutes to push back the tears that were threatening.

After buying himself some (fashionable) fingerless gloves at a clothing store when he'd gone out and bought the TV, Sam decided it was time to start integrating himself into the world again. Because of the amount of angels that were being rounded up, he suggested to Cas that he stay in the bunker. The former angel didn't argue and Sam went out for walks to the nearby park two or three times a day. He took a different route home every day. He didn't want anyone who wasn't supposed to finding their way to the bunker.

The fourth week of Dean's disappearance, Sam and Cas were sitting in front of the TV, watching Game of Thrones, when they heard a knock at the door. For a moment, Sam's heart leapt. Dean had come back. He wasn't truly going to abandon him. He just needed to cool off and now he was back. He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, even though it wore him out and he had to lean against the railing of the balcony overlooking the control center of the bunker before he was finally able to open the door. But instead of seeing a surly looking brother, he saw an unruly looking Asian boy that he hadn't seen for nearly three months now.

"Kevin?" Sam squinted, trying to force his eyes to focus for more than a few seconds so he could take in the figure before him.

"Do you know anyone else who looks like me?" the boy asked, confirming with his voice that he was, indeed, Kevin Tran.

Sam stepped back as the boy walked in. He closed the door, saying, "Y-yeah, I know, sorry. I'm just…" he blinked a few times "having trouble seeing." What was the point in lying about his condition? It was already obvious he wasn't well. Lying about it was just going to make people angry.

_Like it did with Dean, _a voice hissed.

_Shut up, _Sam told it, following Kevin down the stairs to the room near the library where he and Cas had set up the TV.

_God _did _tell you to tell Dean right away. Maybe this could've been avoided if you'd listened to him. _

Sam ignored the voice, though it was probably right, and said to Kevin, "So, what're you doing here? You…vanished the night after the angels fell."

"Yeah," Kevin said, dumping his backpack down on the couch Sam had gotten to go along with the TV. "It felt kind of strange to stay around while your brother stripped you down and gave you a bath because you were shaking and muttering…I thought you were having a fit or something and…" The boy turned away, opening his backpack and digging inside for something, but ending up pulling out nothing, making Sam realize he'd been embarrassed to explain the rest of what he'd seen. Sam wasn't entirely sure what had happened that night. He'd been too delirious. He hardly remembered the first three days after the angels fell. But what Kevin had described didn't sound that unlikely.

"Anyway," Kevin said, turning away from his backpack and back to Sam, sticking his hands in his back pockets, looking nervous, "I've been…hearing the angels talking, which, I thought was impossible now because, you know, they're not angels anymore, but for the first two weeks after they fell they kept saying 'Sam Winchester is forgiven, Sam Winchester is saved,' over and over again. They still say it sometimes, but not as much anymore. D-do you know what they're talking about or why I can still hear them?"

"You're a Prophet of the Lord," Cas said from the couch, not taking his eyes off the television. "You are able to hear the angels even when they are not angels because you are connected to God."

"Thanks," Kevin said to Cas's back. The former angel didn't respond. Kevin faced Sam again and said, "So? Do you have any idea what they mean when they're saying you're forgiven and saved?"

Sam opened his mouth to explain what had happened, but Cas cut him off.

"God has blessed Sam as the new messiah," he said, still not turning away from the TV. "He is no longer damned."

"The new messiah? N-no longer damned? What does _that _mean? That doesn't really answer any questions I had," Kevin said, looking over his shoulder at Castiel.

"I _can _answer the questions directed at me, Cas! That's the second time you've done this!" Sam called, glaring at the his friend, before turning back to Kevin and saying, "There's…a lot you don't know about me…" He sat the boy down at the table in the library, still covered in books and told him about everything: the demon blood, how he'd used it and drank it when Dean was in Hell, and how the Trials had purified him of it, which was the main reason he'd been so sick during them.

"But you're still sick," Kevin said, gesturing to Sam. "And the Trials are over, so what's going on now."

Sam took a deep breath and briefly explained stigmata, telling him what it meant and what it would entail and, with difficulty, how he would die once the stigmata was complete. "That's the way the angels are put back in Heaven," he said, staring at a worn groove in the table. He moved his finger over it.

"Why you?" Kevin asked, sounding serious and solemn.

Sam swallowed and looked up. "Because I completed the Trials and now I'm pure."

"Yeah," Kevin said, "but, from what you told me, there's a lot of pure people out there, so why did God specifically choose you for this? Why couldn't he have chosen some other…random person to take the angels to Heaven?"

Sam let out a small laugh and a smile, saying, "I guess this is the part where I tell you who are we to question the word of God."

Kevin nodded, but Sam could tell he wasn't satisfied and, for the first time, he wondered if he should be either. Was there a way he could summon God and ask him truly why him when there were plenty of other people out there that didn't _have _to go through the Trials to first be clean? He doubted it. It seemed that God appeared to whom he wanted to when he wanted to and there was nothing he or anyone else, including the angels – God's own children – could really do about it.

_The drive from the church back the bunker had taken far longer than Dean wanted it to. He'd witnessed his brother's near suicide, seen him cry out and slump to the ground in pain, before witnessing the angels being cast from Heaven. All in all, he could honestly say it hadn't been a good night, probably one of the worse ones in his memory, which, considering all that had happened in his life, was saying something. _

It's because it concerns Sam, _a voice had reasoned as he'd pulled up to the bunker, parking the impala near the stairs that led down to the door. And he knew it was right. If Sam was hurting, things were a lot worse. Always. _

_ Dean somehow managed to get Sam, still moaning and occasionally crying out in pain, from the back of the car with little difficulty. However, getting him to the door of the bunker without dropping him was more of a challenge and, once they got inside and he heard the buzzing coming from speakers he hadn't known existed, he cursed repeatedly under his breath. _

_Kevin was standing at the top of the balcony overlooking the lobby or Observation Area as Dean had christened it, staring down at the lit up table that showed a map of the world. The map was covered in orange dots. Neither he nor Sam had really tried to figure out how to work all the equipment in the bunker, so seeing the thing showing all of the places where, presumably, angels were falling, Dean was instantly curious. But that wasn't really the priority right now. Sam was burning up, gasping for air, in pain, he needed to take care of him before he could do anything else. _

_"Dean!" Kevin shouted over the noise filling their home, "what's going on?"_

_"The angels," Dean shouted, moving Sam towards the bathroom and stopping right outside it, "they're falling!"_

_They were the same words he'd spoken to Sam earlier before he'd piled him into the car and driven them home, but they were really the only coherent ones he could muster up right now. With Sam shaking and crying out in pain and now pressing his trembling fingers against his ears in an attempt to block out the buzzing that filled the bunker, it was hard to think about anything else. _

_Fully aware that Kevin was behind them and not caring, Dean began to strip Sam down. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and carefully eased it off his shoulders. Once the clothing fell away, Dean had to repress the urge to press his hand to his mouth and cry. _

_Oh, God. _

_His little brother had become so thin. The Trials had taken so much of him. _

_Sam's arms that had once been strong and muscular began to wrap around himself and Dean was snapped back into the present moment a lot more quickly than he wanted to be. He blinked a few times and continued with the task at hand._

_ He led Sam into the bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the tub as he turned it on, letting the water run and warm up as he knelt down to untie his boots. He slowly eased them and his socks off of his feet, before he went to unbuckle Sam's belt. This moment might be exciting were the circumstances different, but he and Sam hadn't done anything sexual since Dean found out just how much the Trials were hurting him. Sam had pressed him more than once to have sex or do something sexual, saying he was alright, that he wasn't in as much pain today, that things were okay, but Dean had always refused him and, in time, Sam stopped bothering his brother about sex. There was something about the way Dean cared for him that Sam respected. Perhaps it was because he knew how important it was to Dean that he _did _take care of him. In any event, Dean was grateful for it. It made his job a lot easier._

_When Sam was sitting before him in only his underwear, still shaking like a leaf, Dean let out a heavy sigh and thought how he'd almost lost his brother a little under an hour ago and he still might lose him. He removed the last article of clothing from his brother's body and checked the warmth of the water before he eased him into the tub. _

_There had only been a few times in his life that Dean could remember Sam being so sick he'd had to hold him up in the water. Once when he'd been ten, he'd gotten the flu and could barely move for a week. Then again when he'd been fourteen. The last time this had happened, had only been a few weeks ago when he'd found Sam passed out in their motel room when they were searching for Metatron, but then Sam's fever had been so high, he'd gently pushed him under the icy bathwater for a moment, struggling to get his body temperature back to normal. _

_It looked like now was going to be another time to add to that list he already considered to be too long. _

_ He kept a hand firmly curled around Sam's upper arm as he grabbed a washrag and a bar of soap from the counter behind him, forcing himself to twist uncomfortably to reach them. He lathered the soap up in the rag before he began to scrub Sam's arms, taking away the dirt that had accumulated on them. He moved the rag to his legs and watched as the water slowly became more and more brown._

_ "What did you do in that church, Sammy?" he asked, though it sounded more serious than joking and he realized he was saying it more for his benefit than his brother's. _

_ When he reached Sam's crotch, he stopped and didn't wash any further. With the way his brother was acting, he wasn't sure how he'd respond to being touched there, even if it was just to get him clean. He moved the washrag to his back and then his chest instead, telling Sam that everything was going to be okay and he was going to take care of him. After he finished scrubbing his brother, he washed his hair, which was still longer than was custom for their guise as FBI agents, but Dean wasn't going to cut it unless Sam asked and even then he'd have a hard time doing so. Truth be told, as much as Dean complained about his brother's hair-length, he liked it the way it was._

_ It took a little longer than it might have normally to wash Sam because he couldn't sit up on his own, but when he finally finished, he drained the bathtub, wrapped Sam in a towel and helped him back to his room. He dressed him in the most comfortable clothes he could find before he pulled back his blankets and tucked him into bed. _

_ "Sleep well, Sammy," Dean said softly as he bent down to kiss Sam's forehead, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he did so. However, as he was turning to leave, he felt fingers curl around his wrist and he looked back at his brother, who was now looking up at him, a desperate expression in his eyes._

_ "I-I'm sorry, D-Dean…" he said softly, sounding truly remorseful as he spoke. "I d-didn't finish the last Trial and-and we didn't sh-shut the Gates of Hell –"_

_ Dean didn't let Sam finish what he was going to say. He bent down and kissed him, this time on the lips. All he could think about was what Sam had said in the church, the reason for his thoughts of suicide, and the last thing he wanted Sam to think, the _last _thing he wanted to have him mulling over as he tried to sleep through the pain that was still, no doubt, wracking his body, was that he'd let him down again. _

_ "No, Sammy," Dean said softly, brushing Sam's hair back again. "You did just fine, I promise." He felt like he was twelve again, reassuring Sam after their father had yelled at him during training. "It's okay that we didn't shut Hell, alright? It wasn't that important, anyway."_

_ This seemed to calm Sam down considerably. In fact, Sam nodded and then his eyes slid shut and he was asleep, looking peaceful for the first time since Dean had helped him out of the church. The truth was that shutting the Gates of Hell was _very _important for many reasons, but, seen in comparison to Sam's life, it wasn't important at all, not even a little bit. _

_ Dean left his brother's room, deciding he should probably try to figure out how to shut off the incessant buzzing and properly explain to Kevin what was going on, but when he reached the lobby, he found Kevin was gone and the buzzing had stopped, so he went back to Sam's room. Sam would never know it later and he wouldn't talk about it, but for the next three days while Sam slept, Dean sat next to him, watching him, making sure that his chest never stopped rising and falling. _

_ He'd almost had to live in a world without Sam. He didn't want that nightmare to become a reality._

The girl who was manning the bar had been making eyes at him since he walked in and ordered a glass of their finest whiskey. Whiskey wasn't exactly Dean Winchester's drink of choice, but seen in the context of everything that had been going on the past few days, he could use something stronger than his preferred beer.

He'd gone through the drink slowly, taking it in sips instead of big gulps like he might've if it'd been something more mild, but he'd wanted it to last, wanted to take as much time as he could before he returned to an empty motel room and the reminder that Sam was going to die because God said so.

Looking up from the amber of his drink, he noticed the girl staring at him again. No doubt, she was hoping he'd ask for her number, start hitting on her, offer to drive her home, even though he was pretty sure her car was in the parking lot. Had the circumstances of his visit to the bar been different, Dean might've done just that, despite the fact that he was in a relationship with his little brother, but his little brother was dying and there was nothing he could do about it and he couldn't bring himself to fuck a girl just to forget about that tonight.

_"You can't just ask me to let you die..."_

_ "I have to."_

Dean's fingers tightened around his glass at the memory of the fight he'd had with his brother just before he'd walked out. Only a month and a half earlier, he'd promised that there was nothing he would put before him and then he'd walked out on him, just when he needed him most. He'd been trying to find the courage and the humility to go back ever since, but Dean had far too much pride inside him to do that and was half hoping that one day he'd listen to one of the voicemails Sam had left him and his brother would be telling him that he'd help him find a way around this, that everything was going to be alright.

But that wasn't going to happen and Dean knew it.

"Rough night?"

Dean groaned inwardly. The girl had taken it upon herself to make the first move. She was going to be sorely disappointed. Still, Dean didn't see any reason _not _to be polite, so he looked up, nodded, and said, "Yeah. I guess you could say that."

"Wanna talk about it?" she leaned closer to him.

He sighed.

She was pretty. Very pretty. And, were the circumstances different, he wouldn't have thought twice about taking her back to the bunker for a little fun.

But he wasn't currently staying at the bunker, he was staying at a motel. He was staying there because his brother was dying and didn't want to be saved. And, if he was to be completely honest, she looked a little too much like Jo.

"I'd rather not," he finally responded, glancing towards where he'd hung up his jacket, wondering if maybe it was time to go.

The girl could tell she was losing the game she was desperately trying to win and said quickly, staring at him, though he was no longer looking at her, "Well, I'm a really good listener." She paused, then added, "Your next round'll be on the house."

Dean couldn't do it. Not to night. He couldn't be that polite. He gave the girl a stiff smile and said, "This is going to be my only round." He dropped a ten on the counter and pushed himself out of the bar before she could say anything else. She really _was _pretty. Maybe he'd come back tomorrow and apologize. But right now he couldn't really think of anything he wanted to do more than lie down in his bed back at the motel and sleep.

As he got in the impala and headed out of the parking lot, he prayed he wouldn't dream. The past couple of days, he'd only been able to dream about Sam dying and not just some awful imagining that his mind had cropped up, but something far more terrible and real.

He kept dreaming of the night Sam died in the abandoned town a little more than six years ago. He would wake up in dreamland in the moment he spotted Sam after nearly two days without him. He would see him walking towards him, relief clear on his face. Then he would see a figure behind him. He would watch as that figure plunged a knife into his back and Sam's face contorted in pain. He'd run to him, screaming, begging that this wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening. Not to Sam. Why couldn't he take his place?

He'd reach Sam just as his spinal cord collapsed and he'd slump in his arms. He would hold him up, look into his eyes where the light was fading and try to tell him that everything was going to be okay, that he'd patch him up and make it better. But it wouldn't matter. Every time, every single damn time, Sam would die. And there was nothing he could do about it.

By the time Dean got back to the motel, he was exhausted just from thinking about the dream and he hoped that somehow, tonight, he would not have to relive that memory. That was one of the worst nights of his life.

He collapsed into bed without taking off his clothes and, within seconds, was asleep.

The world he woke up in was not the abandoned town, but a bright white room that looked like an office of some sort. He whipped around. The only time something like this happened was when angels were involved. However, seeing as there was only one angel left in Heaven, he didn't feel the need to be polite about calling him out on it.

"Show yourself, you winged bastard!"

"Dean, I've always thought that perhaps if you spoke to my children more kindly, they might be more inclined to treat you how you wish."

Dean whipped back towards the desk he'd seen and saw an old man with a snowy beard wearing a white tuxedo and holding a white cane.

The man looked around the equally white room and said, "Yes, it really is too bright in here. Maybe I should redecorate. Still, I don't think this is someplace you'd be comfortable talking. Perhaps we should go where your brother and I spoke?"

The room changed to a Biggerson's.

Dean started and looked around, before he took in what the old man had said and he froze. He replayed the conversation he'd had with Sam before he'd left in his head again.

_"God has blessed Sam with stigmata, the wounds of Christ."_

Cas's words, inserted into the argument resonated in his mind and after a long pause, during which the man had seated himself at a booth directly to their left, he said, "You're God?"

"Yes," the man said, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Please do sit down, Dean. This conversation will be much easier if you're seated."

If Dean hadn't been in such a state of shock, he might've refused, but considering he was speaking to God, he didn't really think of doing that, though, disobeying the person who had – in his mind – made his life crap, sounded like a very appealing thing to do. Even if it _was _only after he sat down that he thought of it.

"Please order whatever you like," God said, now gesturing to the menu in front of him.

Dean didn't touch it.

"Suit yourself." God picked up the menu and, when a woman wearing the Biggerson's uniform appeared, he ordered himself a steak sandwich with a side of fries. "Their sandwiches here are very good," he said once she'd left, turning back to Dean.

Dean said nothing.

God sighed. "I know you're angry, Dean, but you must understand that this is the only way for my children to be returned to Heaven and…Sam deserves this."

"Sam deserves this?" Dean said, his voice deadly soft. "He deserves to be bleeding from his hands and feet? He deserves to die slowly and painfully? He deserves to be _sick _constantly? After all he's done for your precious world and your precious children, my brother deserves this pain?!" Dean was yelling now, but he hardly cared. He didn't know how God could justify this. "Sam threw himself into Hell to stop your rebellious son from destroying the planet and half the people in it! Sam had to endure visions of him for _months _because the memories of being in Hell for over a _thousand years _were too much for his mind to handle! Sam went through the Trials to shut the Gates of Hell and was sick and _dying _and nearly _killed himself _to complete them! Why does he deserve this?! Why should he have to endure _any _more pain than what he's already been through?! Let someone else save the world for a change! Sam doesn't need to do it again!"

To Dean's immense surprise, God didn't interrupt him during his tirade and, when he finished, he wasn't smote into Hell. In fact, God seemed to think for quite a long time before he finally replied to him.

"Do you understand what it would mean for Sam to be the modern messiah?" God asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied, his impatience growing. "It'd mean he'd _die_."

"You don't fully understand what this means to _him_, Dean," God said, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "All of his life, Sam has felt unclean because that yellow-eyed demon, Azazel, turned him into a half-demon the night he murdered your mother, but that isn't the only reason. Perhaps, if you and my children had tried to understand that Sam did not choose that and that he was trying to use his powers for good, then maybe he wouldn't be so desperate to be clean. That is why he was so adamant about doing the Trials. I think he knew in his heart that they would cleanse him and he wanted to do them because he wanted to be clean. He wanted to stop being some abomination to my children and to you. Sam sees the blessing I have given him as just that – a blessing. I suppose calling it a blessing is stretching things, but that is what I call it because that is how Sam sees it." He smiled sadly at the table and shifted in his seat before he looked up at Dean and continued, "Dean, I gave Sam the stigmata instead of someone else because he _wanted_ it. He was desperate for it and when he found out what it was…he was elated." God sighed. "Sam is going to die, Dean. I won't sugarcoat it for you because I know you don't like that and you must know the truth anyhow. Sam is going to die of either starvation or blood loss and you cannot stop it, you must know that now. Sam wants to die because he knows that is the only way the stigmata can be complete. I've told him all of this already. I promise you, Dean, that Sam will be alright. He will come to Heaven and he will finally have what he's always wanted."

"What about me?" Dean's words were silent and sad. "What about what I want? I want my brother alive. I want him to live a long life. I want to live it with him. What about me?"

God sighed again, his expression growing sad when he looked at Dean. "I cannot grant everyone's wishes, only a few and I would be lying if I said I didn't choose Sam's over yours because it fills _my _agenda. I'm not as selfless as people think I am. But I can promise you that everything will be alright and, though it will be painful for you to watch Sam endure this, in the end, when it is all said and done, you will understand my motives and you will accept them."

Dean scoffed. "How do you know that?"

"Because it is what will make Sam happy," God replied simply and with that he and the Biggerson's vanished and Dean awoke in his motel room.

Dean stared at the wall he was facing for a long time, mulling over what had just happened. He rolled over and turned his gaze to the ceiling instead.

God had given Sam the stigmata because Sam wanted it. Sam wanted to die. Sam would rather die than be with him. And once Sam was dead, Dean would, somehow, forgive God for giving Sam this…this _curse _to begin with because Sam would be happy.

He closed his eyes.

_It's time to go home, Dean, _a voice whispered to him and he wasn't sure if it was the one that lived inside his head or God. In any event, he knew it was right. He'd been away long enough and Sam was going to need him, even if he was going to feel completely useless, since there would be nothing he could do to stop what was going to happen.

It _was _time to go home.


	6. Galantians I

After Kevin's return, Sam figured it was time to stop assuming Dean would come back when he was ready and actually try to find him. For all he knew, Dean had been kidnapped by a group of angry fallen angels and they were holding him hostage somewhere.

At least, that was what Kevin said.

"He's been gone for over a month now. For all you know, some of Cas's angry siblings have him locked in a warehouse somewhere and are torturing him daily," the boy had told him, slinging his bag back on his shoulder before heading towards the room he'd chosen as his own. It was between Cas's and Sam's. "You two always assume things with each other and that's a real problem." He mumbled the last bit, but Sam caught it and, though he didn't want to admit it, he knew Kevin was right.

So the three of them sat down at the table the next day and began trying to figure out where in the world Dean could've run off to. Sam wrote down all of Dean's usual haunts for when he ran off, but, for whatever reason, even as he handed the slips of paper to Kevin and Cas, he felt like he was handing out lies. He was certain Dean wasn't in a bar, a brothel, or a motel in Vegas. He felt like his brother was somewhere else entirely and that they would never find him unless he wanted to be found.

Vaguely, he wondered if this was a part of his stigmata, sensing his brother's thoughts and feelings, his location, or rather, lack thereof. He didn't see why it would be or what value it could have to him bringing the angels back to Heaven, unless God knew that he needed his brother to get through this. Truth be told, though Sam had been seeming to do very well without his brother, he was worried that Dean would never come back and he would have to suffer through this final trial alone.

_It would probably help if you let Cas and Kevin know what you're thinking, _a voice told him after yet another week had passed in their search for Dean. Kevin had gone out to all the local bars and brothels. He'd even called a few motels that Sam had pulled out from their code that they'd used for when they got separated, but no one seemed to have any of Dean's aliases checked into their system.

Finally, agreeing with the voice, Sam, sitting at the head of the table in the library, said, "Stop." Kevin and Cas looked up from the phonebooks and webpages they'd been looking through to stare at Sam. "I don't think he's anywhere we're checking."

There was a short silence.

"What?" Kevin asked, he sounded annoyed and Sam didn't blame him. He'd be annoyed, too, if the person they were doing all of this for was only just now letting them in on what he'd suspected all along.

"I don't think Dean is anywhere he might be normally," Sam clarified.

Cas was as impassive as ever, but Kevin looked incredulous. And pissed. "And you're only telling us this _now_?" he asked, clearly trying to hide his anger.

"I'm sorry," Sam said softly. "I just…thought we should rule out those places before I said this…in case I was wrong."

Kevin didn't say anything else. He only turned back to the phonebook he'd been flipping through and snapped it shut. Cas glanced at the computer, confusion lighting up his face again as he tried to figure out how to use the contraption that Kevin had so patiently tried to explained to him earlier when he'd asked (Sam had protested at first, but then figured that they didn't know how long Cas was going to be a human and had relented).

"Okay," said Kevin, turning back to Sam, struggling to regain his composure. And his patience. "If he's not where he usually is or saying he is who he usually does, then where is he?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he replied honestly, looking back down at the phonebook he'd been searching through.

"Then how are we supposed to find him?" Kevin asked, his voice rising again.

Sam let out a heavy breath, guilt weighing on him, though, in truth, he hadn't really done anything wrong. "I don't know," he said again.

Kevin let out a frustrated sigh. "Great," he huffed, collapsing into one of the chairs surrounding the table they'd been working at for the past week. "We've been looking in all the wrong places for the past seven days and now that you tell us that, you don't even know where we _should _be looking."

"I'm sorry," Sam said again, not sure what else to say.

Kevin was opening his mouth to say something else when there was a knock at the door.

All of them froze.

As far as Sam knew there was a grand total of five people who knew about this bunker: himself, Dean, Kevin, Cas, and Charlie, which meant that either they'd been found out, Charlie was visiting, or Dean had returned. They all looked at each other, all of them thinking the same thing, before pushing back from their chairs, racing up the stairs to where the door was and flinging it open.

Standing in the doorway, looking exactly as he had the day he'd left, was Dean.

Kevin was saying something about how they'd spent the last week trying to figure out where he was. Cas was saying he was glad to see Dean again. Dean was opening his mouth to say something to Sam, who was smiling, looking at his brother, opening his mouth to say something as well when a searing pain ripped through his feet. For a moment, Sam didn't know what was going on and everyone around him stared at him with concern as he fell to his knees from the force of the pain, wondering what was going on. But then Sam recognized it. He'd only felt this kind of pain once before.

When his palms had begun bleeding.

He looked up from his place on the ground and moved his gaze from Kevin to Cas to Dean before he gasped out, his voice breathless, "It's happening."

No one knew what he meant. They were all talking at once, trying to get him to explain, but Sam had slumped on the floor and he could already feel blood filling up his shoes. He wondered if his boots would be ruined by this.

_Silly thing to worry about, _a voice whispered, _when your feet are gushing blood. _

Sam managed a smile as he thought, _But this is a good thing. I'm finally clean. _

Then the darkness consumed him and he fell away into unconsciousness.

There was a warm breeze ruffling his hair and a pleasant smell filling his nostrils. It took him a moment to identify it as flowers. He opened his eyes and found he was right.

He was lying in a field of soft green grass and the most beautiful flowers he'd ever seen in his life. He touched the ones nearest him with the tips of his fingers, getting a bit of pollen on his skin. It made him smile.

Looking around, he noticed a few trees scattered around the field. Whenever the wind blew, he could hear the leaves rustling and the birds chirping angrily at the wind for daring to disturb them. They were making nests, feeding offspring, or simply resting on branches and they couldn't be disturbed by the wind. Their lives were far too busy for that. Sam wondered what it would be like to be a bird with responsibilities as simple as those.

_It might be very dull, _a voice told him. _You might get bored. _

"I don't think I would," he said to himself, looking back down at the flowers. "Not if I was a bird. I wouldn't know any different."

"Wouldn't you?"

The voice came from behind him and Sam started, realizing only just then that the voice hadn't been in his head at all. It'd belonged to someone standing behind him. It took him less than a moment to recognize that someone.

"Jess…"

He breathed her name, said it almost like the prayers he'd whispered over and over in the dead of night when she'd first died, begging for this to just be another bad dream, for him to wake up in her arms and have her comfort him, tell him he was being ridiculous before he curled back beneath the blankets and returned to a blissful sleep.

But that'd never happened.

And it never would.

Now she was standing here before him, looking just as she had when she died: wearing a white satin nightgown, her wavy blonde hair down, a crown of daises resting on the top of her head, and a basket of the many wildflowers around them clutched in her hand. She was barefooted and beautiful and Sam had to clasp his hands together to keep from reaching out and touching her. He was terrified that if he did, she would disappear and this beautiful dream he'd fallen into would turn into another nightmare that he could never escape.

He wasn't sure he could survive that a second time.

She smiled, her cheeks becoming round and rosy, just as they had in life. She brought him out of his thoughts as she said, "Yes. I've been waiting for you, Sam."

"Am I dead?" he asked.

She laughed and Sam nearly started crying. He couldn't even count how many times he'd thought about that laugh, thought about how much he missed it. Now he was hearing it again. This was all too good to be true.

_What's the catch?_ He wondered nervously, but he didn't say this out loud. He kept this to himself. If there was one, he didn't want to know. Not just yet.

"No," she said, answering his question. "You're not dead. You're just here to visit for now." With that, she turned and started walking away from him. He noticed a cottage surrounded by more flowers, a small fountain nearby, in the distance.

"This is Heaven?" he asked, hurrying to keep up with her.

She nodded as he fell into step next to her. "Yes. And no." She turned and smiled up at him. "This is _my_ Heaven. Or, at least, a section of it."

"Oh," Sam said. That really was all he _could_ say. Sam had been to Heaven once. Nearly four years ago now. While he'd been there, he'd talked with Ash, an old friend, and learned that there wasn't one singular Heaven. Each Heaven was personalized to you and you relived all of your best memories in your own Heaven. Sam looked around the flower field and wondered what memory this was for Jess. It had to have been before they met. He'd never been to a place this beautiful in his life.

The walk to the cottage was short. It wasn't as far away as it appeared, though, Sam figured that, because they were in Heaven, the cottage could've been five miles away and it still would've taken them only two minutes to get there.

Jess set down the basket she'd been carrying and the crown of daises at the gate of a white picket fence that opened to a short stone pathway that led to the cottage's front door, before going back to Sam and saying, "We have a lot to talk about."

She laced her fingers through his and led him up the walkway through the door of the cottage. Sam expected it to look like something out of a Thomas Kinkade calendar, but it looked exactly like the apartment they'd gotten together and it made him stop in the doorway. The night Jess had died, he'd vowed never to come back to Palo Alto, not only because it'd be too painful, but because he couldn't go backwards in his life. Not anymore. It'd only been in recent years that Sam had truly realized what that meant.

It was only vaguely that Sam heard Jess tell him to sit down and, when he was still too stunned by the sheer familiarity of everything around him, she gently guided him to one of the wooden chairs they'd picked out together at IKEA, sat him down, and said just as gently, "I'll make you some coffee."

Sam didn't say anything. He didn't really drink coffee. Not anymore. That'd only been when he was in school to wake him up, keep him awake during his classes. He sometimes had coffee when he and Dean needed to stay up all night to watch someone or had to finish research for whatever they were currently hunting, but it was rare. Coffee reminded him too much of Jess. She'd been the one that had made it for him every morning before classes. She'd been working as a barista when he first met her. He would never admit it to Dean, nor anyone else, but, even now, eight years later, he wasn't over her death.

_Dean may be your soulmate, but Jess was the love of your life, _a voice whispered in his mind and he knew it was right.

Once the coffee was placed in front of him, Sam grabbed it out of habit and took a small sip. Though he knew this was only a sort of dreamland for him, the coffee tasted real and exactly as it had when she'd made it for him before school every morning what felt like a lifetime ago. He sipped his coffee in silence for a while before he looked up and noticed she was staring at him. He set the coffee down and figured they should talk about whatever it was they were going to talk about. No doubt, he was currently lying in his room at the bunker unconscious with a worried brother, angel, and prophet, and as much as he wanted to stay here with Jess, forget about his responsibilities in the real world, he couldn't. He had to acknowledge them and, if he was correct, this meeting was part of them. Best to get it over with quickly so he could return to Earth and whatever awaited him there.

"Jess," he said softly, swallowing the last of his coffee, "what am I doing here?"

Jess's gaze turned to his hands, resting on the table. She placed hers over his and said, "You know, I never blamed you for my death, Sam." She looked up at him. "Not once. You couldn't have prevented it, even if you tried. We were always star-crossed lovers."

Instantly, Sam pulled away, pushing back the chair and pressing himself up against the wall as he did so. "The last time I had this kind of conversation with you, you ended up being Lucifer wearing your body to get to me," he said, sounding far more afraid than he meant to. That couldn't be this. Not again. Seeing Jess and knowing he couldn't ever be with her again was painful enough. Finding it out it wasn't really Jess was even worse.

However, Jess seemed startled by his reaction and this comforted Sam, if only slightly. Ever since he'd seen her, she'd been something other than the girl he'd met, but this emotion was familiar to him and the expression on her features, made her look more like herself than anything else had.

She got up from the table and approached him slowly, as though she were approaching a wounded animal. A part of him thought that if that were in fact what she was thinking, she wouldn't be too far off.

The thought brought tears to his eyes.

He closed them in an attempt to stop them from falling.

When he felt a gentle hand on his cheek, he opened his eyes again and saw Jess standing before him, looking sadder than he'd ever seen her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and apologize and tell her that this was all his fault, whether she blamed him or not and that if he could, he would go back in time and warn her away from him, keep her safe, but then her lips were on his and he forgot everything. He relaxed completely and he wondered why in the world would he want to go back to Earth where all that was waiting for him was pain and sadness? Why not just stay here with Jess forever? Why not grow old with her? Have children with her? _Live _with her in this Heaven? That sounded like the better option.

_But if you stay here, if you die, who is going to bring the angels to Heaven?_ That voice in his head asked. It sounded desperate and Sam wondered, not for the first time, if the voice was even his own. _You can't abandon the world, Sam. _

_Why not? _He responded tiredly. _I've saved the world more than once. Let it be someone else's turn. Let someone else do it for a change._

"No one else can do it, Sam." This time the voice belonged to Jess and he wondered how she was able to hear his thoughts sometimes and not others. Then he wondered if she really could hear his thoughts all the time and just hadn't been commenting on it. Either way, it didn't seem to matter to her. She continued what she was saying, "You're the messiah, Sam. You were chosen by God to bring the angels to Heaven and cleanse the people of Earth of their sins before your death. You can't die now. Not yet."

Sam felt Jess's hands on either side of his face. He bowed his head, his eyes closed and placed one of his hands over hers. He didn't want to do this if it meant leaving her, but, as she'd said, he _would _die and once he was dead, he could be with her forever and then, once Dean died, they could be together forever as well. It would be wonderful. Perfect. He just had to do to this one last thing first.

"Okay, Jess," he said softly, leaning into her touch. "Alright…I'll do it. I will…what was it you had to tell me?"

Jess smiled. "Nothing. I just wanted to see you."

He was opening his mouth to ask why she said they needed to speak, why she'd said she'd been waiting for him, when she pressed her lips to his again and he found he no longer cared. As he closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, the apartment vanished and Sam was once again in his bedroom in the bunker.

Dean had gone to get himself a mug of coffee when Sam woke up, but he returned shortly after his little brother opened his eyes. When he came back into the room and noticed that Sam was already awake, he quickly set down his mug on the nightstand, hurried up to him and leaned over him, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and saying, "Sammy? Are you alright?"

Sam was staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had just happened. He didn't notice that his feet were now wrapped the same way his palms were. He didn't notice that they didn't really hurt. Not just yet. He didn't notice that he wasn't wearing shoes anymore. He was so absorbed in his thoughts of Jess that when Dean asked him if he was alright, instead of answering he said, "I saw, Jess. I went into her Heaven. She brought me to her somehow."

Hearing this, Dean moved away from Sam, sitting back down in the chair he'd brought in from the library. He hated admitting it, but Dean had always been jealous of Jess. She was the first person Sam loved outside of him and Sam had been fully prepared to choose her and the life he had with her over Dean. It hurt. More than a little bit. Especially since he and Sam had been what you might call "together" for four years before he left for college.

"Are you sure it was her?" Dean asked, his jealousy showing in his tone, if only slightly.

Sam didn't seem to notice. "Yes," he said, turning to his brother. "It was her."

Dean said nothing more. Suddenly, he didn't want to sit by Sam. His brother was fine. His feet were now bleeding as much as his palms were and if they brought him to the hospital, the doctors wouldn't be able to sow them up, so he'd done all he could. He didn't want to sit next to him if all he was going to talk about was Jess. He knew he was being petty, but he didn't care. Sam was going to be gone soon. He wanted to spend time with his brother before then. Not with his brother and a memory.

"I'll be in the library," he mumbled, before getting up, taking his coffee with him.

Sam was still thinking about Jess, about what she'd said.

_You were chosen by God to bring the angels to Heaven and cleanse the people of Earth of their sins before your death. You can't die now. Not yet._

The way she said it made it sound as though the people of the world were supposed to know about him, his stigmata. He wondered if she'd been speaking with God. Certainly not everyone in Heaven knew what was happening to him. He didn't feel as though it was common knowledge. Why would it be?

_Because the angels have fallen, _the voice told him. _Of course everyone in Heaven is going to know about it. _

He sighed. Perhaps. But he liked to think that God had spoken with Jess, given her the power to bring him to her, even if it was only for a short period of time.

It was nice to think of himself as God's current favorite.

It was much better than thinking of himself as the one God currently sought to damn.


End file.
